Opialus
by watchmaker1331
Summary: Two cousins inherit a map that holds the secret to finding the lost tomb of Opialus...and discover a secret about themselves that they never expected. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

**Ok, so this is an idea I came up with for a RPG site I'm on that was having a contest. It was supposed to just be a short story but it kind of spiraled out of control...It just had so many _Treasure Island_ (which I adore, by the way) parallels that I thought I would be at home here. The contest had three requirements:**

**An ivory key  
An underground house of some sort (may vary)  
An abandoned village**

**Please read and review...I want to know what you think!**

**Contrary to most of my stories here, this one is almost entirely MINE. Do not steal, oryou will have to retrieve your plagarizing head from an inappropriate location.**

**Enjoy!**

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"Gerroff!"

"Say uncle!"

"Never! Ow! Gerroff, Lana!"

"Say UNCLE, Robbie, and all of your pain can end…"

"Uncle! Uncle!" Robbie moaned, and she tossed him back into the mud. He rubbed his arm, gazing at his cousin in contempt. He stood, trying to shake the cold, stinking mud of the millpond off of his clothes.

"You've got a bit of dirt, Robbie. Just there," she said teasingly, putting her finger on her nose.

"Oh, go to hell," he muttered, chucking a clod of mud at her. Lana caught it full in the stomach and grunted, doubling over. He waded over to her, concerned. "Lana? You alright?" He bent down, trying to look at her face to see if she was crying.

"Gotcha!" she hollered, and wrapped her arm around his neck in a tight headlock. The pair rolled back into the mud, laughing and tussling until both were thoroughly covered in muck.

"Robert! Lana! Gods above, children, you're a mess!" came a voice, just as Lana was shoving Robbie's face back into the mud.

"Iron Annie," Lana hissed, pulling Robbie to his feet. "Come on, quick!"

The two hurried out of the pond and up the hill towards their aunt, sister to Robbie's mother and Lana's father. She was a big woman, almost as big around as she was tall, and the fiefdom of Caceril had been her home since she was born. She was a powerful voice in the village…no one disagreed with Iron Annie for long.

She beckoned them quickly, rubbing her hands nervously in her skirt. "Come on! He wants to see you. No, don't go change, he might not last much longer," she choked, a tear coming to her eye. Robbie and Lana glanced at each other; surely Iron Annie wasn't crying?

They shuffled off after her, heads bent. Great-grandpa Lymo's fever must be getting worse.

The walked silently into the healer's hut, blinking against the fragrant smoke rising from the fire pit. The village healer, Tharnad, shook her head as they passed, dipping another rag into the boiling water. She placed it up under his chin, but he flung it away. It spun across the hut, landing with a wet _slap_ against the Elanwood walls. The children glanced at each other, grinning. Grandpa wasn't gone yet.

"Annie? Did you bring them?" he grunted, his blind eyes covered by a steaming rag. The fever had taking many things from the old man; his temper was not one of them. He was one of the few people in all of Caceril (maybe even all of Merderon) that Aunt Annie was afraid of; her grandfather was the oldest man in the village, and certainly the most dangerous.

He had outlived his own sons by twenty years; he had retained his strong, masculine body for nearly all of them. It was rumored that he had fought the Jaragon Marauders at the battle of Killagi Hill, which had taken place nearly one hundred years before. If pressed, Grandpa Lymo would tell you not to be ridiculous and probably throw something. _If_ he liked you.

"Yes, Grandfather," Annie said, ushering the children forward.

"Then get out. You, too, healer. But don't think I'm finished with you, Annie Fletcher!" he grumbled irritably, and Annie and Tharnad scuttled out, leaving Robbie and Lana alone with the old man.

"Robert? Lana?" Grandpa Lymo whispered, clutching their hands. He scowled, feeling their arms until he was sure they were his great-grandchildren, muttering to himself. Then, reassured, he smiled, pulling them in close. "Robbie, Lana…I have something to give you. But first you must promise that you will keep it a secret…promise!" He tugged gently on their arms, and they quickly acquiesced. His toothy smile widened and he released them, clutching his hands together in child-like glee.

"Lana, there, on the table. A jet box, about yea long. Bring it to me," he whispered, his voice low and longing. Lana rushed to do his bidding, while Robbie stood stock-still, excited as to what his ancestor could possibly want of them.

Lana pushed the box into the old man's shaking hands, and he stroked it gently. "Yes…open it, open it!" he commanded, and the girl pried the top off of the case.

Black velvet lined the interior of the little box, the most expensive fabric the children had ever seen. Nestled in the center of the cloth was a long, bone-white ivory key with a single, blood-red ruby on the grip.

"Amazing, isn't it? It was given to me by the captain of the Jaragon Marauders…yes, I was there," he said, nodding briskly. "One night after the battle, when I was on guard, he started talking, telling me a story. About Opialus." He nodded proudly. "Yes…he claimed to have a key, a key to the fabled burial chamber of King Harriam, who was ancient even before my father's time." Robbie brushed the key with his fingers, ever so lightly.

"Do not touch it!" the old man exclaimed, as though sensing his offspring's actions. "There is a spell laid on it, of a power I cannot understand…though I was once proficient in magic." He shook his head sadly. "You must keep it in the box, unless you can find a way to lift the spell…" He broke into a fit of coughing, his thin body racked with pain.

"Grandpa?" Lana asked, grabbing a boiled rag and dabbing his face with it. "Grandpa, are you alright?"

The fit subsided. He sighed, trying to catch his breath. "Sweet Lana…always have you been good to me. You and Robbie. That is why I chose you. Never pestering, never chastising. You are good kids," Lymo said, patting her on the cheek. "It is under the Elanwood tree, Lana. Next to the mews. You will know it…by the light of Cantrell," he continued, his breath coming in gasps now. "The map…take it!"

"What map? Take what map?" Robbie pressed, holding the old man's hand tightly.

"Under the pillow…take it!"

Robbie reached gently beneath Lymo's head, his hand closing over a worn strip of vellum. He drew his hand out, placing the map in his pocket.

"Soon, children! Soon! Cantrell…only now…the map…" Lymo murmured, the rag slipping from his eyes as he moved, the unseeing pupils fixed upon the door. "Go! You must hurry!"

"We will wait with you, Grandpa," Lana said, patting his forehead with the cloth.

"There is no time! Go! Run into the forest!"

Someone pounded on the door. "Master Lymo, are you alright in there?"

"They are coming! Quickly, out the chimney!

"_What_?"

"Go! Go now…" Grandpa Lymo mumbled, his voice trailing off. Then he stopped moving, his uncovered eye glaring at the ceiling.

"Lymo! Lymo, open up in there!" The voice was unfamiliar, coarse, and accented. "Lymo!" The door began to shudder, as though something (or someone) large was slamming itself against it.

Robbie and Lana glanced at each other. "What are we going to _do_?" Lana whispered, clutching the box. Robbie glanced around, and began dragging the small table towards the center of the hut.

"Robbie, this is no time to rearrange the furniture! Somebody's trying to get it in here; _I_ certainly don't know them…"

"That's because they're not from around here. That's a Jaragon accent; I've heard them at Market with my Da. Help me!" Robbie growled, dragging the heavily table over the fire pit. "Come on we're going."

"What are you doing? Where are we going? Jaragons!" Lana whispered angrily, hardly noticing as her cousin hauled himself up onto the table.

"We're going after the treasure, of course. Through the chimney."

"_What_?"

"That's what Grandpa Lymo said to do…unless you're planning on hacking your way through a Jaragon. Come on, gimme your hand," he said, reaching down for her. She dropped the box into the pocket of her dress then jumped up on to the table.

"Grab the thatch, there. Quickly, the door is splitting!"

And indeed it was. A long, splintering crack spider-webbed across the thick Elanwood door, threatening to give way at any moment. Lana gave it one fleeting look before pulling herself up into the roof of the hut.

"Come on, come on!" Robbie muttered, pushing her feet up through the hole. Then he reached up into the straw, grasping Lana's hand as she pulled him up.

A great echoing crash signaled the demise of the door, and three Jaragon Marauders rushed into the healer's hut, swords drawn.

"He is dead," said the largest, poking the warm corpse with his scimitar. The others crowded around the bed, gazing at their deceased quarry. A fourth Jaragon strode in, an air of command hovering about him like a foul smell. He gave the bed a single glance from under his bushy black eyebrows, then drew a knife from his belt and hurled it into Lymo's still chest.

"_Now_ he is dead," he murmured, brushing a small bead of blood from his captain's cloak.

Tharnad stood at the door, holding back the rest of the village. She buried her face in her hands at this proclamation, sobbing.

"He is dead! They have killed him!" she cried, turning to face the crowd. The hushed whispers that had accompanied the arrival of Merderon's former allies exploded into a collective wail of lament as the news spread through the village, the cries of "Lymo is dead!" growing louder with every moment.

"The children! Where are the children?" shouted Annie over the anger of the crowd as she pushed her way up next to Tharnad. "Robbie and Lana, where are they?"

"It's not here, sir," said one of the Jaragons, cutting her off. The captain gazed around the hut, signaling for Annie to be silenced. One of the Marauders held a knife to her throat, and she quieted.

"Children…" the captain said to himself, his eyes resting on the large table. A scattering of hay lay in heap in the center, directly below the smoke hole.

"The rooftops. Find them, and bring them to me," he commanded, gesturing for Annie to be released. "Lieutenant, you and your men round up the villagers and begin the selection. I will join you momentarily."

"As you command, so shall it be, Captain Kelior," the lieutenant saluted, forcing Annie and Tharnad away from the door.

Kelior closed his dark eyes, waiting until the door shut behind him. He then approached the bed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"Well met, Lymo the Wilder. But sending your offspring after the staff will only prolong the inevitable. Remember that." Reaching across the dead man's stomach, he wrenched the knife from Lymo's breastbone. "And your magic won't save them this time."


	2. Chapter 2

**Alrighty...so I haven't got any reviews, but I'd still like some people to R&R...you know you want to!**

**_Treasure Island_ fans, keep your pants on. Stuff's coming up, you'll see!**

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Robbie and Lana dashed from hut to hut until Caceril ran out of roofs, the shouts of the villagers ringing in their ears. Reaching the edge of the village, they paused for a short breather.

"What in the HELL is going on?" rasped Lana, clutching her cramping side. "Jaragons? King Harriam's tomb? Grandpa Lymo?"

"It doesn't make sense to me, either. But they were looking for something…didn't you hear them? Something Grandpa had…and I'll bet you forty handells that that key and this map is it."

"You've never even _seen _forty handells," muttered Lana. "But you're probably right. We promised Grandpa we'd keep them a secret. I bet he wanted us to find the tomb!"

"Well, we're not doing much finding sitting up here on the baker's roof," Robbie said, edging down the pitch of the thatch. "Come on. It won't take them long to figure out we're missing, along with the key. If we hurry, we can make it to Olfsen's barn before they spot us. Then we can rest for a bit," he continued, holding out a hand for Lana to take. She reached for it and missed, sliding down the slick thatch with a scream.

She landed with a harsh _thwap_ in the wet mud, her ankle landing crookedly beneath her. She bit back another whimper of pain, blinking away tears.

"Lana!" Robbie whispered angrily, dropping down next to her. "Brilliant! You'll've brought them down on top of us!"

"My ankle's twisted," she replied, grasping Robbie's hand as he pulled her up. She wrapped her arm around his neck and they limped off as fast as they could, across the field towards Lindelin Wood. The brambles and nettles of the prairie snagged their clothes and skin, threatening to drag the hobbling pair down into the golden depths. Once or twice, they tripped, nearly landing face first into the dried grasses, only to regain their balance at the last instant and continue on with a growing sense of urgency.

The great creeping expanse of Lindelin Wood loomed closer and closer before them, the wild, tangled growth shining green in the Seed Moon air. Even in the depths of winter, the Wood remained green and untamable, reaching farther and farther into the fields each year. The local farmers combated this wood constantly, and would often blame their troubles on it. Some claimed that unspeakable demons dwelled in the forest, or that magic fed the unstoppable growth. "Nothing a good dose of weed killer won't cure," claimed Jeremiah Olfsen.

Farmer Olfsen was the village eccentric; a strange, outspoken man who had decided to build a barn in the woods. "Keep the bandits out," he said, but everyone knew that the demons of the forest were far worse than any mortal bandits. And so Lindelin had consumed the barn; and though Olfsen maintained that he could store any product there without fear, the villagers shunned the idea as the frivolous imaginings of an old man.

So the barn had become something of a curiosity among Caceril's children, the subject of fanciful tales and late-night whispers. Against their better judgement, Robbie and Lana crashed through the underbrush, searching frantically for the run-down shed.

Heavily accented cries echoed across the field, the sounds of the Jaragon dispatch hot on their trail. Robbie paused and slung his cousin over his shoulder, despite her protests, and started to run. The shouts faded as he ran deeper and deeper into the woods, Lana bouncing angrily on his shoulder.

Robbie collapsed, panting, at the edge of a clearing. Lana fell to the ground with a crunch. She glared at him as she sat up, leaves scattered in her hair. He laughed and she shushed him, peering into the green darkness.

"There," she whispered, using a sapling to haul herself upright. Robbie stood, breathing heavily. There would be time for rest when the reached the barn. He grasped her around the shoulders and the pair hobbled across the weedy expanse to Olfsen's hulking monstrosity.

A family of falcons watched them from the massive Elanwood hanging above their heads. Together they managed to clear the vines and creepers away from the door and make their way inside. The musty stench of rotting hay and wood erupted outwards into the air, making Robbie cough and Lana's nose run. They stumbled inside, and the rusty hinges swung the door shut behind them.

Small shafts of light filtered through the dust and onto the floor, providing a small amount of illumination. They dropped to the ground, leaning up against the ruined stalls, and tried to catch their breath.

Lana fell asleep against a decaying support beam, leaving Robbie alone with his thoughts. After several moments of drowsy boredom, he reached into his shirt and drew out the parchment, his fingers tingling with excitement.

He unrolled it gently, his green eyes caressing the thick vellum as he tried to take every bit in at once. The red-brown ink spider-webbed across the page, a thin, wiry cursive paragraph at each corner; according to the compass rose, one each at the north, south, east, and west.

His eyes trailed to the upper left-hand corner—south.

_Face not the wind's southerly blows_

_For from them airy death flows_

_Sharp and true the arrows fly_

_And will end your earthly woes._

Robbie shuddered. Not a very pleasant message, to say the least. Wondering faintly what they could possibly mean, he began to read the right-hand, western stanza:

_Setting sun upon my shoulder_

_Be wary of the western boulder_

_Hard and fast it falls upon you_

_And your bones will grow far colder._

In the bottom right, to the north:

_Frigid knives all born from stone_

_High above your head they've grown_

_To fall upon your saddened soul_

_And watch bleed and die alone._

Deciding he wasn't terribly excited by the tone of these cryptic messages, Robbie glanced warily at the bottom left-hand corner of the worn map—the east.

_Gold sun rises from my breast_

_Follow me to find the chest_

_Deep inside my sparkling vaults_

_Here _(a part here was smudged and unreadable) _you end your quest._

He grunted. It seemed to him as though a different poet altogether had penned those final lines. If they had been forced to choose a direction there and then, any idiots would have certainly chosen the east. Returning his attention to the drawn part of the map, he frowned.

The red-brown ink was jumbled and seemed to overlap in places, some lines darker than others, some dashed, some barely there at all. He screwed up his eyes, trying to examine it all in the insufficient light filtering through the barn.

"There!"

Robbie jumped, the voice of the Jaragon joined by several others. He leapt to his feet, shaking Lana awake. He covered her mouth and dragged her over to the ladder leading to the hay loft. "Go!" he whispered, pushing her upwards. She hopped awkwardly up the ladder until she could slide herself up into the loft. Robbie followed hastily up after her, stuffing the map back into his shirt.

Silently, the cousins pulled the ladder up into the loft. Crawling to a corner where they would be more concealed, they peered down into the barn with bated breath.

"What's all this, then?"

Lana jerked upward, knocking her head on a low hanging beam. Eyes watering in pain and surprise, she looked back at the speaker. When she recognized him, her look of terror dissolved into a furious growl. Grabbing the offender around the neck, she dragged him to the floor.

"George Riley, if you say ONE WORD, I will personally rip out your spleen and feed it to the dogs," she muttered, looking daggers at the surprised redhead. He nodded fervently, his words of ascent muffled by the hand in front of his mouth.

The armored warriors burst into the room, scimitars drawn. The three inhabitants of the hayloft held their breath, drawing back from the edge. The Jaragons glared around into the darkness, their dark eyes squinted with suspicion. The tallest motioned around the barn, muttering to his companions in their guttural language; they spread out across the hay-strewn floor, swords extended before them.

"Robbie? Lana? This is no time for games! Your family misses you!" the tall warrior said, his voice high-pitched with false concern. "We aren't going to hurt you…come out, come out, where ever you are!" He slammed open the door to one of the stalls, hacking into the empty air. Lana gasped. Robbie clamped his hands over her mouth, but it was too late.

The Jaragon whirled around, his dark eyes scanning the loft. "Chira! Mesoma qwui kheeru!" he called to his companions, pointing to the upper levels. The questing warriors slunk out of the shadows like a pack of starving wolves, grinning viciously in the direction of their leader's gesture. "Children! This is your last chance! Come down from there, or I will have to be very angry!" he called. The warriors chuckled ominously, stroking their naked blades.

Robbie dragged the other two away from the edge of the loft, whispering angrily. "Oh, excellent work, O Silent One. Now what are we going to do?"

"They's after you?" said George, picking a piece of straw out of Lana's hair. The pair nodded. "I'll get youout. Follow me." He moved off, silent as a gnat, across the eaves.

Robbie and Lana glanced at each other. Robbie glared silently at his cousin, and then turned and followed George. Lana frowned and followed the boys, dragging her injured ankle after her as quietly as she could.

The Jaragons, however, had not been idle. Four had broken off from the assembly and had begun shimmying up the rotten supports. Another group was attempting to light a rapid fire in the damp hay, which had only succeeded in raising a large cloud of foul-smelling smoke. The tall lieutenant gave orders to bar the main door.

"Not the brightest, this lot," muttered George as the regrouped in the far corner. "Lighting a fire and shutting themselves in? It's a wonder they ever got out of Jarag." He gripped the edge of an ancient board with his wind burned hands, prying it gently from its loose moorings. It opened up right above one of the Jaragons, who was standing guard in front of a window whose shutters had been long ago reclaimed by the forest. "It's a tight fit…but if we can make it to the window, we're home free."

"We can't go home," whispered Lana. "There's more of them there."

"Jaragon's in Caceril? What is Merderon coming to!" mumbled George, rooting around in the surrounding hay for something. "For Lana…Usually Old Olfsen keeps…yes!" He withdrew his arm from the moldy hay, a rough burlap bag in his hands. He untied the hemp, revealing a pile of rusty…

"Horseshoes? George, are you insane? She's twisted her ankle, not thrown a shoe!" Robbie said, trying to wrench the bag away from the redhead. The look on the other boy's face stopped him.

"She's not wearing them…she's dropping them. We have to be ready to jump down and catch her." Lana nodded slowly, taking the heavy sack from him.

"Do what he says, Rob."

George grinned. "Ready? On three. One…umm…"

"Three!" Lana said loudly, dropping the weighty bag directly onto the head of the stunned Jaragon below. There was a sickening crack and the man collapsed.

Robbie and George leapt down after it, reaching up for Lana. George caught her as she tumbled, and tossed her unceremoniously over the sill to Robbie, who was already outside. He followed them, pausing only to utter a few disparaging remarks to the rest of the Jaragons. He reached down and thrust the rotting shutter back in through the window, catching one of the speedier warriors in the chest. Releasing the plank, he turned and high-tailed it into the woods after Robbie and Lana.

George carried Lana on his back as they charged through the Elanwood, Robbie close behind. "This way," the redhead said, leaping over the roots and briars with surprising speed. Robbie chased after him, the shouts of the Jaragons still resonating in his hears.


	3. Chapter 3

**Please R&R!**

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George Riley was the seventeen-year-old town vagrant. He had been orphaned two years before the cousins' had been born; his mother died in childbirth, his father had never stepped forward to claim him. His fiery red hair and quirky disposition had always been somewhat of a curiosity among the younger children of the village; among them, he was king. He had long ago chosen Lana to be his queen.

Lana did not approve of this.

He watched her now in a way that made Robbie uncomfortable. There was no denying that his cousin was a beauty; but she was also the village's best rider, archer, and wrestler. Robbie had a hard time imagining his cousin settling down with anyone, let alone George Riley.

Lana had tied her skirt up around her legs like a pair of breeches, her dirty blonde hair coming loose from its tie as she looked up. She scowled at George, who grinned maliciously. Robbie sighed and looked back down at the map.

"What's it say, Robbs," said George, looking over the younger boy's shoulder. He couldn't read, like most of the villagers; Lymo had made sure that all of his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren were able to read "just in case." Whatever that meant. Robbie read the quatrains aloud, his eyebrows pressed together as if in conference.

"Sounds gruesome," Lana muttered, trying to tie a strip of her skirt into a splint. George held it down for her. She pulled her ankle up under her, leaning forward to look at the wrinkled parchment. "Why's it all addled like that? With the different ink lines?"

George leaned over into Robbie lap, pressing his nose onto the map. Robbie tried to push him away, but the redhead persisted. Sitting back up, he shook his head.

"That isn't ink, my kids. That's dried blood. Really old, but you can still tell." He tapped the side of his nose. "The nose knows."

"That's disgusting," said Robbie matter-of-factly, scooting back from George, lest he take another dive into his lap. "But look…these lines here. See how they are darker than the others? This symbol here's a house or a barn or something, the one with the dotted lines. These other dotted lines, here," he traced his finger along the lines, "must be nearby. Which means…"

"It's in the forest," Lana said, squinting at the map.

"Right. So the tom—"

Lana started coughing harshly. George patted her on the back, but Robbie could see her eyes. _Don't mention ANYTHING._ Robbie nodded, and the coughing petered out.

"You alright?" George said, looking concerned. She waved him off.

"George, you have to go back to Caceril and warn them about the Jaragons," she said, wiping her watering eyes. He laughed, draping his arm over her shoulders.

"You're kidding, right? And when I go back and say, 'Well, Master Welling and Master Sheppard, I saw your kids in Elanwood with the Jaragons, but Lana told me to leave them there.' I'd be skewered. Not a chance. You're stuck with me, kid."

"Damn," she muttered, pushing him off of her. Robbie raised an eyebrow. She glared at him, leaning closer to whisper, "Lymo said!"

"Lymo is dead. I don't think he would have wanted us to go on alone. And with Jaragons on our tail, we need all the help we can't get."

George poked his head in between theirs. "Mind telling me what in the Good King's name is going on here? I nearly got gutted by a Jaragon raider, mind. I think I deserve a telling."

Lana sighed, rolling her eyes. Robbie took charge. "The Good King, indeed. That's exactly what's going on."

"What?"

"King Harriam. The Good King. And his tomb—"

"Opialus," George murmured, glancing at the map. "You don't mean…"

"Yup," said Lana, "and if you tell anyone else, we'll boil your…"

"Tell anyone? Are you mad? A map to the greatest treasure in all of Merderon?" He let out a sharp bark of laughter. "So that's where you're going, then? To Opialus?"

"Yes. Lymo said we'd know it by the light of Cantrell."

"And that it was under the Elanwood tree…next to the mews," said Lana quietly.

"Load of good that does us. Cantrell is full tomorrow night. Everything'll 'be known' by its light. And every other tree in this forest is an Elanwood! How in hell are we supposed to track down one moonlit tree?" George leaned back, chuckling, and plucked a sprig of long grass from the ground. He chewed on it, his eyes dancing with amusement. "This is a fool's errand."

"Then it should be easy enough for you!" Lana growled, snatching the map away from Robbie.

"Not everything," murmured Robbie, staring contemplatively at the ground. The leaves above cast green shadows on the ground, which danced gently whenever the breeze blew across them. He leaned forward, tapping the shadows. "A clearing. It would have to be in a clearing. Only the tallest trees would be in the moonlight. Elanwoods aren't as tall as the hodgentrees. None of them would get any light. A grove, perhaps, of Elanwoods, that circle a clearing."

"The barn! There's a really old Elanwood there, that huge one! I'll bet it was there when Opialus was built," George said, pointing back the way they had come.

"Not built. Dug." The boys looked up at Lana, confused. "It's a cave. Opialus is in a cave! Look here," she said, pointing out the red dotted lines. "These lines are a map of the surface. You know that pile of old stones, just outside the barn clearing? I bet that was this tower, here." She traced the outline of a short building made of dashed brown-red.

"The trees must have gotten closer…taken over the old clearing, where this tower was. And Olfsen's barn…"

"Would be right over the entrance," Robbie whispered.

"Good work, lads. We couldn't have done it without you. Now, kindly stand up and give us the map."


	4. Chapter 4

**Here's the update :D Steal this and I may steal something important to you...like a kidney.**

**Enjoy!**

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Five Jaragon warriors ringed the children; in their excitement, no one had noticed their arrival. Their captain marched forward, his curved blade resting in his hand.

"Why are you here? What claim do you have to this treasure?" Lana exclaimed, her face reddening angrily as George hauled her to her feet.

The captain's proud, olive skinned forehead wrinkled in anger, his dark eyes narrowing. "What claim? Do you not know that your 'Good King' gained his fabled wealth from destroying my lands? Jaragon gold is buried beneath this soil. And we are going to return it," he said, his mouth widening in a dangerous grin. He held out his hand for the map while his men tightened their hands on their swords.

Robbie extended the map slowly towards the captain. Lana sneezed.

Captain Kelior snatched at it greedily, unrolling it in triumph. His face fell as he scanned the vellum, his expression riffling slowly through the spectrum until it settle on barely-suppressed rage.

"What manner of enchantment is this! The lines are moving!" He looked up at the children, an angry vein pulsing above his eye as he thrust the map forward. "Remove this spell before I kill you!"

Robbie and George's eyes widened as the formerly stationary lines of bloodink scuttled across the page like so many red-brown worms. Lana looked on in confusion.

"What are you talking about? The map's perfectly fine!" she scoffed, trying to take a step forward but collapsing into George instead. "_Face not the wind's southerly blows…_"

"Witch! You can read this?" the Captain spat, pointing to the map, which to everyone but Lana was now a mass of wriggling lines.

"Of course," Lana said, beginning to wonder what was going on. She gripped Robbie's shoulder tightly, glancing at her cousin in confusion.

"Lana…you've done magic!" he whispered in awe.

"Seize them! This witch will lead us to Opialus…or her friends will die."

"Hey!" George cried. Two burly Jaragons grabbed him by the shoulders; two others held tightly to Robbie. Kelior closed his thin fingers tightly over Lana's wrist.

"Lana! Do something!" Robbie yelled, gasping as he struggled against his captors.

"We only need one friend to carry out our threat. The other will only be a nuisance. Kill the redhead," the captain said calmly, pulling Lana closer to him.

"No!" she shouted. Just as the Jaragon warrior prepared to slit George's throat, she sneezed.

George vanished, reappearing high above them in the upper branches of an Elanwood and looking thoroughly surprised.

"If you harm either of them, I'll kill you all where you stand," Lana proclaimed angrily, wiping her nose. Kelior laughed.

"Why don't you just kill us all now, little witch?"

"I want to get to Opialus, too. It's underground, you realize. I figure I might need someone to do some heavy lifting." She eyed Kelior over her nose. He chuckled, releasing her wrist.

"Indeed. You may lead the way."


End file.
